Page 13 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

How is it that we can be so, so alike — in looks, in preferences, in mannerisms — yet we cannot manage to help each other through this desperate, consuming grief. I can barely stand to be in the same room as him. For fear of breaking. For breaking even more than I’m already broken.

My father’s tone is cool as he says derisively, “Look what you’ve done to yourself instead of acknowledging what you’re capable of. You’ve stifled it all.”

“You can’t have it both ways!” I actually find it in myself to snap back at him. “You can’t say that Armin had no control and I have too much.”

My father just nods curtly. Not because he agrees with me, but to indicate that he’s done with the conversation.

He unclenches his fists and eases back in his chair.

“And now, because of you both, I’ve lost my future, my legacy.

And instead of continuing to … contribute to the world at large, to the greater good, I’ll be making bargains and signing contracts to fortify what I can salvage of it all. ”

Anne gasps, completely shocked.

I’m not shocked. I can feel the pain radiating from my father now. Finally. I can rationalize his words, even his choices. He bred me, raised me under the same restrictions he places on himself, after all. I’m his chosen child, while the twins are the children of his heart.

And I’m not even a fraction of what I was supposed to be.

All his hopes and dreams for the legacy he’s spent almost a century building and securing died with Armin.

I honestly never wanted more. Never needed more, from life or my father. Because I also had Armin.

We are twins in that aspect as well.

“I love you,” I say quietly.

My father flinches as if I’ve knifed him. And maybe I have. I certainly don’t have a strict hold on my essence at the moment, though he’s usually immune to me. As Armin also was. As I am to them both.

No. It’s just my utterly heartfelt words from my utterly destroyed heart that have caused my father’s reaction.

Anne makes a quiet, pained sound and grabs for my hand. She brushes the hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear.

“We miss Armin terribly too,” she whispers. She shoots a look my father’s way, openly defying him. “And we don’t blame him. We mourn and lash out, yes. But it’s because we can’t lose you. We can’t lose you for so many reasons. Most of all because you are ours. Do you understand? ”

I finally look away from my father, who is still reeling from the injury I’ve inflicted with three short words. I meet Anne’s open and earnest gaze. “I understand.”

And I do. My father can’t climb to the highest castle tower and throw himself off it in grief for his son. He can’t fall apart.

So he also needs to shore me up, to make me as invulnerable as possible, even while forcing me to take a place at his side.

Forcing me to adopt Armin’s destiny, not my own.

Whatever that destiny was supposed to be …

though maybe I never had a destiny of my own.

Maybe I was put on this earth to balance Armin.

I’ve already failed the universe in that.

“Fifty,” I say, looking away from both of them. My gaze settles on my phone set under the vase radiating yellow roses. My mind is instantly anchored in the recollection of the picture I’ve hidden in its depths.

“From that fifty, most will … choose to step away.” My father’s tone is measured again. Cool but not cold.

I glance at him, surprised.

He shrugs. “They’ll come, of course. No one will pass up the chance to be in the room, to see who else has been invited. Maybe even make matches of their own. But …”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. I do so anyway. “The purple eyes.”

He nods. “You don’t need cowards incapable of understanding the power that runs in your veins. Of understanding what you are capable of, even if you yourself refuse to acknowledge it.”

This last bit is bait. A bit of overly simplified detritus skimmed from the same decade-long arguments surrounding my choice to dampen my power.

I don’t chomp on it .

He continues, “Those who stay will eventually reveal their … true natures.”

“Through a series of contests?” I ask archly.

My father snorts. “I’m sure you and Anne can come up with appropriate activities. Go riding. Or hunting. Shopping. To the races. Take them to your … charity events.” He waves a hand— not dismissively, but because he truly doesn’t know what the hell I do all day.

“What about all the orgies?” I ask blithely.

He looks me dead in the eye and calls my fucking bluff. “You won’t need Anne’s help arranging those.”

My face flushes even as I snort, laughing. “I’m not … cutting people. Choosing.”

“They will eliminate themselves. And you will eventually need to choose.”

“And you’ll draft the contracts.”

“I’m sure those will need only signatures by that point.”

“And they … these courageous, advantageous matches will be your chosen mates more than mine.”

My father sighs, then rubs his temple. “I have no other idea … I don’t know how else to protect you. Help you do the duty that’s been thrust upon you by your brother, and protect you at the same time. The contracts will be unbreakable.”

“No one breaks a contract with you,” I say, shoving the immediate thought of the contract that Rian has just inked with him out of my head.

My father is generally polite about it, but if I give him too wide an opening, an invitation, he can read those thoughts.

“They don’t,” he says agreeably. “I’ll bring you the best, my daughter.”

“But will the best stay?” I ask mockingly.

“That’s more up to you than me. ”

I never win any sort of verbal sparring match with my father. I am always the lesser. Of course, he’s almost seventy-five years older than me.

“Fine,” I say, folding and politely placing my napkin beside my untouched plate.

“Fine is not an answer,” my father says as caustically as he typically gets.

I’m assuming he’s noted that I haven’t eaten, and is remembering that Anne had to stage an intervention about my dietary habits only three months ago.

Honestly, eating without Armin to share a meal with still feels utterly pointless.

“But you didn’t ask a question,” I say sweetly, rising, then crossing to the door to retrieve my sunglasses and phone.

He huffs. But then he seemingly allows me to get the last word, accepting my mocking exit bow with just a nod. I suspect his acquiescence might be due to Anne petting his forearm soothingly.

“I love you, Mirth,” my father says to my back right before I exit the dining room. “I’ll see you happy. Happy again. I promise.”

And now not only have I once again been denied the last word against my father, I’m the one silently suffering from a mortal blow. And not from his utterance of those three short words.

No. It was the utterance of my name— and his claim on me, on my soul, made through that.

Fifty potential suitors.

And me walking around perpetually wounded.